PS 
2947 


Story 
Nature  and  Art 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


NATURE    AND    ART: 


A     POEM, 


B  V     \V  .    \\  .    S  T  O  l{  \  . 


NATURE  AND  ART. 


NATURE    AND    ART 


A    POEM 


DELIVERED        BEFORE 


THE  PHI  BETA  KAPPA  SOCIETY 


OF    HARVARD   UNIVERSITY; 


AUGUST  29,  1844. 

H* 
BY     WILLIAM    W.     STORY. 


BOSTON: 
CHARLES  C.  LITTLE  AND  JAMES  BROWN. 

MDCCCXLIV. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1S44, 

By  WILLIAM  W.  STORY, 
in  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  District  of  Massachusetts. 


BOSTON : 

PRINTED  BY  FREEMAN  AND  BOLLES, 
WASHINGTON  STREET. 


NATURE   AND   ART. 


WEARY  with  toiling  o'er  the  burning  sand, 

A  Pilgrim  in  the  caravan  of  Life, 
Gladly,  O  gentle  Poesy  !  I  stand 

On  thy  green  oasis,  removed  from  strife  ; 
And  after  many  an  hour  of  toil  and  pain, 
Within  thy  living  wells  I  bathe  again. 

Here  warm  with  love,  with  heaven-inspiring  glow, 
From  climes  ideal  odorous  breezes  blow  ; 
Here  hope  abides  unshadowed  by  a  care, 
Here  beauty  haunts  the  dim  and  fragrant  air, 
Here  breathes  the  Past,  in  sweet  and  mellow  tone, 

Of  mighty  spirits,  that  from  earth  have  flown, 

1 


837100 


5i  NATURE     AND     ART. 

Here  calls  the  Future  with  prophetic  voice, 
And  tells  of  lofty  and  undying  joys  ;  — 
And  as  within  this  dream-enchanted  land, 
With  Hope  and  Memory  clasping  either  hand, ' 
I,  like  a  dreamer,  hear  their  magic  words, 
And  let  my  fingers  stray  among  the  chords, 
How  may  I  better  do  than  to  rehearse 
Their  golden  truths  in  my  unfashioned  verse, 
And  blazoning  this  device  upon  my  scroll, 
"  The  Brotherhood  of  Nature  with  the  Soul," 
Give  utterance  to  the  various  shades  that  start 
In  rhythmic  cadence  from  the  realms  of  Art. 

Gently  as  sunshine  groweth  out  of  shade, 
Nature  ascendeth  slowly,  grade  by  grade. 
Each  stage  of  life  a  higher  growth  foreshows, 
And  holds  the  germ  whence  loftier  beauty  grows. 
Upward  forever  springing  from  the  earth 
Life  struggles  onward  to  a  holier  birth  ;  — 
From  coral  forests  whitening  'neath  the  sea 
To  blos'my  branches  of  the  waving  tree  ; 
From  the  light  blossom  fluttering  in  the  air 
Unto  the  living  flower  that  feedeth  there,  — 
Even  as  if  some  breeze,  that  wandered  by, 
Shaped  from  its  leaves  the  downy  butterfly,  — 


NATURE      AND     ART.  i 

From  the  fair  Psyche,  at  its  birth  a  worm, 
That  creeps  and  grovels  in  its  sensual  form, 
That  breaks  its  coffin-chrysalis  to  wear 
Its  spirit-wings  and  feed  upon  the  air, 
Unto  the  soul,  that  spurns  its  clay  to  fly 
Through  the  vast  realms  of  immortality. 
In  each  progression  fresh  perfection  flowers, 
With  purer  senses  and  diviner  powers  ;  — 
And  as  within  each  simple  tone  is  heard 
The  faint  foreshadowing  of  the  ample  chord, 
So  every  portion  promises  the  whole, 
And  nature  prophecies  the  coming  soul. 

And  man  within  his  spirit  and  his  sense 
All  forms  and  hints  of  nature  doth  condense ; 
Imagination,  like  the  shaping  sea, 
Reason,  the  air,  so  subtle,  fine  and  free, 
The  Understanding,  firm  fixed  like  the  earth, 
The  changeful  Fancy,  cloud-like  in  its  birth, 
The  fire-like  Passion,  that  through  all  things  swells, 
That  rarefies  and  fuses  and  impels,  — 
Faith,  calm,  enduring  as  the  silent  rocks, 
That  brave  unmoved  the  tempest's  maddening  shocks, 
And  Aspiration  panting  still  to  rise, 
As  plants  and  flowers,  that  struggle  for  the  skies. 


4  NATURE     AND     ART. 

When  the  first  breathing  of  the  April  wind 
Woos  the  fair  blossoms  from  the  trees'  rough  rind, 
And  breathes  with  fragrant  mouth  upon  the  earth, 
And  lures  the  daffodil  and  crocus  forth ; 
When  from  the  loosening  mould  the  snow-drops  peep, 
And  blue-eyed  violets  wake  from  wintry  sleep  ; 
When  white  anemones  are  clustering  round, 
And  starry  housatonias  paint  the  ground  ; 
When  high  in  air  the  curving  swallow  cleaves, 
Or  flutters  twittering  round  the  pendant  eaves  ; 
When  all  that  was  emprisoned  bursts  its  shell, 
And  issues  forth  in  the  free  air  to  dwell ;  — 
Then  like  a  brother  to  the  trees  and  flowers, 
The  human  plant  obeys  the  season's  powers  : 
Elysian  longings  through  our  being  move, 
And  stir  the  sleeping  passions  into  love, 
And  happy  dreams  and  joyous  hopes  are  born, 
And  life  is  painted  with  the  hues  of  morn. 

Yes,  man  in  Nature's  every  shape  can  trace 
The  blurred  reflection  of  his  inward  face, 
And  evermore  he  hears  with  plaintive  tone 
Her  prisoned  spirit  pleading  to  his  own,  — 
As  if  she  struggled  to  become  that  soul, 
Whose  infinite  essence  comprehends  the  whole. 


NATURE     AND     ART. 


And  thus  is  man  upon  his  earthly  march, 
The  central  point  of  Nature's  perfect  arch ; 
To  him  all  rays  converge,  from  him  is  sent 
That  hue,  which  is  its  godlike  complement. 
Still  as  he  wanders  here,  to  him  there  come 
The  blissful  memories  of  his  exiled  home ; 
Often  amid  the  toil,  and  dust,  and  strife, 
Clear  fountains  bubble  to  refresh  his  life  ; 
Oft  to  his  listening  ear,  with  silver  chime, 
Sound  the  clear  bells  beyond  the  walls  of  time  ; 
From  Love's  warm  rays  harmonious  tones  are  born, 
Like  Memnon's  music  at  the  light  of  morn ; 
And  Hope's  fresh  breath  upon  the  longing  soul 
Fans  its  emotions  to  a  burning  coal ; 
And  these  fine  dreams,  whose  silent  effluence 
Perfumes  his  life,  which  come  he  knows  not  whence, 
Which  from  the  infinite  grow  without  his  care, 
As  clouds  that  breed  from  nothing  in  the  air, 
Demand  their  utterance,  will  not  be  represt, 
Beat  like  a  constant  pulse  within  the  breast, 
Widening  till  they  within  their  light  intense 
Circle  the  soul's  entire  circumference, 
Their  coloring  through  the  air  of  thought  infuse, 
Invest  all  Nature  with  their  radiant  hues, 


O  NATURE     AND     ART. 

With  the  sure  feet  of  fate  pursue  his  way, 
Urge  him  till  he  their  ceaseless  call  obey, 
Till  Art,  with  spirit  hopeful  as  the  morn, 
The  child  of  Nature  and  the  Soul  is  bom. 

Thus  struggling  on,  the  artist  seeks  to  find 
The  charm,  that  marries  matter  unto  mind. 
With  his  own  life  the  world  of  sense  he  warms, 
And  Nature  to  his  passion  he  transforms ; 
To  him  her  shape  is  ever  fresh  and  young, 
New  music  lives  forever  on  her  tongue, 
With  every  change  she  weaves  a  magic  spell, 
And  daily  works  an  endless  miracle. 

Knit  thus  together  by  a  secret  bond, 
The  spirit  unto  Nature  must  respond, 
For  some  strange  spell  unites  them  at  our  birth, 
And  shapes  us  half  from  heaven,  and  half  from  earth. 
Though  Custom  blur  the  sense,  and  dim  the  eye, 
And  blot  out  beauty  from  the  common  sky, 
All  from  its  wretched  slavery  breaking  loose 
At  times  will  burst  the  bondage  of  its  use, 
And  free  in  thought  respond  to  Nature's  tone, 
And  feel  her  throbbing  heart  against  their  own. 


NATURE     AND     ART.  i 

He,  who  to  Nature  lends  a  reverent  ear, 
One  voice  through  all  her  changeful  works  shall  hear, 
From  great  to  small  shall  see  one  mighty  cause 
Ordain  her  circle,  and  prescribe  her  laws. 
The  stars  wide-rolling  on  their  pathless  course, 
The  restless  sea,  the  torrent  brawling  hoarse, 
The  common  earth,  the  clouds,  the  open  sky, 
The  circling  seasons'  sweet  variety, 
The  rounded  pebble,  and  the  winged  seed, 
The  idle  flower,  the  never-blooming  weed, 
All,  from  the  starry  sky  unto  the  clod, 
Shall  whisper  of  the  Universal  God. 

Though  that  calm  tone  be  drowned  by  din  and  strife, 
That  softly  sings  through  every  phase  of  life, 
There  breathes  no  man  whose  spirit  is  not  awed, 
When  Nature  rousing  with  her  voice  of  dread, 
Clad  in  her  tempests,  in  her  earthquake  tread, 
In  pealing  anthems  shouts  the  name  of  God. 
So  have  I  heard  it,  when  with  pulsing  shocks 
The  swelling  ocean  climbs  the  naked  rocks,  — 
When  the  uplifting  surf  in  darkening  might 
Shakes  out  its  glistening  mane  into  the  light, 


8  NATURE     AND     ART. 

And  combing  up  along  the  sunny  reach, 
Plunges  in  crowding  foam  upon  the  beach. 
So  have  I  heard  its  deep  and  solemn  call 
Still  sounding  on  forever  day  by  day, 
Where  with  a  thunderous  hum  the  waters  fall 
Down  the  abysses  of  Niagara. 

Like  hell-hounds  from  their  slumber  waking, 

And  panting  madly  for  their  prey, 
Their  whitening  manes  in  fury  shaking 
And  howling  down  their  rocky  way, 
From  Erie's  sleep,  in  rushing  rapids  breaking, 

Storms  down  Niagara. 
Wildly  towards  their  dread  abyss 
Hurrying  they  rage,  and  foam,  and  hiss, 
Over  their  shelving  precipice ; 
Yet  pausing  on  those  awful  steeps, 

Firm,  solid,  and  compact, 
With  heavy  plunge,  and  hollow  anthem,  sweeps 
All  —  all  together  in  one  emerald  mass, 

The  thundering  cataract ; 
And  evermore  its  solemn  roar 
Peals  up  the  heavens,  and  down  the  shore, 


NATURE     AND     ART. 

While  from  the  unremitting  storm 

Of  seething  foam  below, 
Rises  the  water's  ghost-like  form 

In  its  shroud  of  misty  snow. 

With  thee  the  wrestling  storm  hath  striven, 
The  wintry  blast  hath  grasped  thee  by  the  mane, 
And  from  the  summer's  darkening  heaven, 
Plunging  into  thy  breast  its  forked  levin, 
The  thunder  answered  to  thy  call  again  ; 
But  undecaying  in  thy  pauseless  power, 
Heedless  of  storm,  and  reckless  of  the  hour, 
Deep  —  deep  —  with  everlasting  trumpet-tone, 
Thou  soundest  ever  on. 

A  thousand  harvests  of  the  human  race 
Hath  Death's  keen  sickle  shorn, 
Since  thou  wast  in  convulsions  born  ; 

But  like  a  passing  mist  across  thy  face, 

Year  follows  year,  and  age  succeeds  to  age, 
And  terrible  as  at  thine  hour  of  birth, 
Thy  hoary  locks  thou  shakest  wildly  forth, 

And  scarless,  in  eternal  youth  dost  rage. 


NATURE     AND     ART. 

""ailing  —  falling  —  as  if  in  huge  despair, 

Thy  watery  weight  descends ; 
Rising  —  rising  —  as  Hope  were  ever  there, 

To  heaven  again  it  tends  ;  — 
And  Faith  her  rainbow-bridge  uprears 
Upon  the  shattered  spray  of  tears, 

And  o'er  the  roaring  gulf  its  arch  extends. 

Strong  as  thou  art,  there  is  for  thee  an  hour ! 

There  is  for  thee  a  law  ! 
Its  limits  an  Almighty  power 

Around  thy  strength  can  draw ; 
Who  forged  the  universe  unto  his  will, 
Can  chain  thy  fury,  bid  thy  storm  be  still  ; 
He  who  hath  given  paths  unto  the  stars, 
And  meted  to  the  universe  its  round, 

Who  clothed  thy  being  with  the  voice  of  wars, 
Hath  set  thee  thine  appointed  bound. 
Thundering  thou  dashest  on  with  awful  roar, 
Yet  bendest  humbly  to  His  stern  decree  ; 
And  thou  unto  His  eye  art  nothing  more 
Than  the  frail  swallows,  that  forever  soar 
Above  thy  terrors,  by  his  law  made  free  ;  — 
Flames  over  thee  and  all  the  fiery  sword, 
Thou  servest  —  thou  art  bondsman  to  the  Lord  ! 


NATURE    AND    ART.  11 


But  though  to  few  is  given  the  subtle  charm 
To  crystallize  the  fluid  thought  to  form, 
There  beats  no  heart,  within  whose  inmost  cell 
Lurks  not  the  witchery  of  Art's  magic  spell. 
Round  every  breast  some  happy  memory  clings, 
Some  winds  steal  Music  from  the  slackest  strings ; 
The  coldest  heart  at  moments  must  aspire, 
The  stoniest  sense  hath  hidden  sparks  of  fire. 
Stray  as  we  may,  we  cannot  wholly  roam 
Beyond  the  memory  of  our  former  home, 
And  dreams,  that  in  the  guileless  soul  have  lain, 
In  peaceful  hours  return  to  it  again. 
Though  manhood's  sky  a  darkening  film  may  shroud, 
In  childhood's  distance  sleeps  a  rosy  cloud. 
Some  trait  of  grace  we  all  must  have  to  love, 
Some  gleam  of  beauty  dawning  from  above, 
Some  God  to  whom  we  lift  our  secret  prayer, 
Some  love  whose  light  may  shield  us  from  despair. 

But  ere  the  soul  hath  felt  the  blight  of  Time, 
The  human  with  the  heavenly  blend  in  rhyme  ; 
Still  to  the  call  of  Freedom  it  responds, 
On  its  own  limbs  it  feels  a  brother's  bonds, 


NATURE    AND    ART. 

And  every  breath  of  Love  hath  power  to  win 
The  musical  emotions  from  within. 

There  is  a  grovelling  class  who  would  refuse 
The  claims  of  Art,  and  ask  it  for  its  use, 
Whose  souls  to  custom  wed,  and  dull  routine, 
Through  their  dark  film  behold  the  fairest  scene  ; 
Who  cannot  feel  the  same  mysterious  power 
That  wields  the  thunder,  also  shapes  the  flower ; 
Who  hear  not  through  the  dim  mysterious  night 
The  stars  make  music  in  their  spheral  flight ; 
To  whom  the  burning  hope  of  youth  is  cant, 
Its  longing,  folly,  and  its  passion,  rant ; 
And  while  they  drudge  along  with  downcast  eye, 
Sneer  at  the  fools  that  dream  there  is  a  sky, 
Like  some  poor  captive,  that  in  stupid  glee 
Hugs  his  foul  chains,  and  calls  it  liberty. 

And  is  it  nothing  in  thy  hand  to  wield 
An  aegis,  that  compels  the  world  to  yield, 
Within  its  yoke  all  bounds  of  space  to  bow, 
And  mars  all  Time  to  one  eternal  Now  ; 
To  rouse  the  life-blood  in  our  sleeping  veins, 
And  thrill  our  pulses  with  ideal  pains ; 


NATURE    AND    ART.  13 

With  pictured  griefs  to  overflow  our  eyes, 
With  feigned  joys  to  lift  us  to  the  skies, 
The  slumbering  passions  with  a  word  to  fire, 
And  play  upon  the  heart  as  't  were  a  lyre  ? 

Oh  wretched  ye !  who  would  abjure  the  light, 
Whose  faith  is  bounded  by  the  touch  and  sight, 
Whose  utmost  wealth  by  numbers  can  be  told, 
Whose  music  is  the  jingling  of  your  gold  ;  — 
Ye  may  your  acres  keep,  but  he  alone 
Is  rich,  who  has  the  landscape  for  his  own  ; 
That  wealth,  which  from  your  splendor  lies  remote, 
Abides  with  Genius  in  its  ragged  coat. 
He,  whom  you  sneered  at  as  he  wandered  by, 
Transmutes  your  earth  to  pictures  with  his  eye  ;  — 
Across  the  threshold  of  his  narrow  home 
Angelic  forms  have  not  disdained  to  come  ; 
And  roseate  dreams,  and  high  enraptured  thought 
In  music  tones  their  lofty  themes  have  taught ; 
And  he  hath  owned  a  fair  and  broad  domain 
Beyond  the  blighting  touch  of  care  and  pain  ; 
And  poor  indeed  in  all  thy  vaunted  pelf, 
Hath  found  the  highest  wealth  of  man — himself. 


14  NATURE    AND    ART. 

Round  whirls  the  never-resting  earth, 
One  gleaming  side  in  sunshine  sleeping  ; 

The  sunset's  glow,  the  morning's  birth, 
Around  each  day's  penumbra  creeping. 

Along  the  darkening  cone  of  night, 
That  far  into  the  distance  narrows, 

The  vivid  stars  are  sown  in  light, 

The  meteors  shoot  their  flashing  arrows. 

And  viewless  winds  forever  strive 

Fanning  the  earth  with  mighty  pinions, 

The  seas  they  beat,  the  clouds  they  drive 
Through  the  blue  sky's  serene  dominions. 

With  mighty  storms  the  ocean  heaves, 
With  fiery  shafts  the  clouds  are  riven, 

In  passionate  sobs  the  forest  grieves, 
The  water-spouts  whirl  up  to  heaven. 

And  evermore  in  light  and  shade, 
With  every  varying  color  changing, 

Rock,  valley,  forest,  hill  and  glade, 
Along  their  rapid  course  are  ranging. 


NATURE      AND     ART.  15 

And  from  earth's  myriad  different  sounds 

The  sunlit  mist  of  music  rises, 
Where  distance  all  the  discord  bounds, 

And  to  a  murmur  harmonizes. 

Over  the  loveliest  spot  of  earth 

Are  Grace  and  Beauty  freely  scattered, 

Yet  are  the  springs  of  inward  birth, 

By  which  their  secret  roots  are  watered. 

The  seeking  heart  alone  shall  find 
The  germs  in  Nature's  bosom  hidden, 

And  to  the  loving,  prayerful  mind, 

The  shape  of  Beauty  comes  unbidden. 

But  happiest  is  his  peaceful  part 

To  whom  the  lofty  task  is  given, 
To  plant  within  the  field  of  Art 

The  seeds,  that  blossom  up  to  heaven. 


Not  in  a  distant  unsubstantial  clime, 
Far  from  the  common  atmosphere  of  time  ;  — 
Not  under  roofs  where  dazzling  splendors  glance, 
The  sickly  offspring  of  a  weak  romance,  — 


16  NATURE      AND     ART. 

Doth  Art,  enshrined  in  artificial  forms, 

Sit  like  a  queen,  and  scatter  round  her  charms  ; 

But  in  our  life  of  toils,  and  pains,  and  loves, 

Around  our  earthly  atmosphere  it  moves.  — 

Where'er  the  mourner  weeps  above  the  corse, 

While  stifled  grief  makes  utterance,  choked  and  hoarse  ; 

Where'er  the  maiden's  listening  ear  awaits 

The  loved  one's  footsteps  at  the  garden  gates ; 

Where  through  the  veins  the  sense  of  loving  stirs, 

And  fuses  all  this  solid  universe ; 

Where,  still  pursuing  as  the  phantom  flies, 

Childhood  hunts  pleasure  through  its  paradise  ; 

Where,  like  the  gnawing  vulture,  day  by  day, 

Pain  eats  the  better  part  of  life  away  ; 

Where  blind  desire,  born  in  the  sweet  abstract, 

Beats  its  mad  wings  against  the  sullen  fact ; 

Where  they,  whose  longings  up  to  heaven  would  fly, 

Rot  in  the  toilsome  slime  of  poverty  ;  — 

In  every  struggle  for  the  truth  it  strives  ; 

In  every  brave  heroic  deed  it  lives  ; 

In  every  joy  it  singeth  like  a  bird  ; 

In  every  grief  its  secret  sob  is  heard. 

To  give  a  voice  to  every  varying  hue  ; 
All  passion  unto  Beauty  to  subdue  ; 


NATURE      AND     ART.  17 

To  make  eternal  by  a  touch  of  power 
The  chance-grown  product  of  the  fleeting  hour; 
To  prison  in  a  web  of  subtle  words 
Prismatic  lights,  and  evanescent  gleams  ; 
On  the  deep  basses  of  harmonious  chords 
To  build  an  undecaying  world  of  dreams ; 
Upon  the  lifeless  canvass  to  impress 
All  forms,  all  tints,  all  lines  of  loveliness, 
And  to  compel  the  solid  stone  to  yield 
The  Idea's  image  in  its  breast  concealed  ; 
Such  is  the  aim  of  Art ;  and  to  obey 
Its  high  behest  is  not  an  idle  play  ; 
For  never  yet  its  golden  prize  was  won 
By  blowing  painted  bubbles  in  the  sun. 
It  asks  the  willing  toil  of  earnest  years, 
Companioned  by  its  secret  hopes  and  fears, 
Born  of  desire,  baptized  by  burning  tears. 

Ye  are  deceived  who  dream  his  perfect  powers 
Untrained,  unguided,  blossom  forth  like  flowers ; 
Who  deem  his  life  is  but  a  gay  parade, 
By  joys  escorted  through  a  rosy  glade  ; 
No  !  he  hath  never  won  who  never  fought ; 
By  toil  and  will  alone  is  greatness  wrought,  — 


18  NATURE     AND     ART. 

And  he,  who  shrinks  those  cravings  to  endure, 

Which  agonize  the  heart,  while  they  allure, 

In  whom  no  boundless,  burning  longings  glow, 

That  whirl  him  onward  through  all  pain  and  woe, 

Let  him  contented,  from  afar  survey 

The  Elysian  light  around  Art's  summits  play. 

The  craving  longing,  Earth  cannot  supply, 
The  struggling  thought,  that  vainly  seeks  the  sky, 
The  darkening  sense,  that  borders  on  despair, 
The  fatal  failure  poisoning  all  the  air, 
The  laboring  hours  success  hath  never  blest, 
The  anxious  doubt,  that  gnaws  the  care-worn  breast, 
The  secret  fear,  that  jars  the  unnerved  mind, 
As  some  fine  lyre  is  riven  by  the  wind,  — 
These  are  the  pangs,  that  rack  the  nice-strung  sense  ; 
But  Genius  is  its  own  great  recompense, 
And  though  a  wildfire  burn  within  its  veins, 
For  other  joys  it  would  not  change  its  pains. 
The  child  of  Nature,  for  his  wondering  eyes 
She  lifts  the  veil  from  off  her  mysteries  ; 
His  voice  to  hers  in  clear  accordance  rings  ; 
Her  beauty  is  the  air  in  which  he  sings ; 
She  wreathes  his  fancy  with  its  fairest  liues  ; 
With  visionary  dreams  her  heart  he  woos ; 


NATURE      AND     ART.  19 

She  breathes  in  music  as  he  wanders  by ; 
She  bids  the  world  be  picture  for  his  eye  ; 
For  him  her  bounteous  arms  are  open  thrown, 
Her  secrets  yielded  unto  him  alone  ; 
While  he  within  her  meanest  shape  perceives 
The  lingering  glory,  that  God's  finger  leaves  ; 
And  as  the  Ocean's  faint  and  muffled  swell 
Haunts  with  perpetual  voice  the  hollow  shell, 
So  to  his  inward  ear  the  world  around 
Is  as  a  shell,  in  whose  fine  labyrinths  sound 
The  murmurs  of  a  dim  and  distant  sea, 
The  secret  promise  of  futurity. 

V 

Still  the  fair  promise  towers  above  the  fact, 
And  Hope's  great  vision  dwarfs  the  accomplished  act. 
No  mortal  hand  within  its  art  hath  wrought 
The  perfect  semblance  of  the  unbodied  thought ; 
Bright  as  its  reflex  seem  in  art  exprest, 
It  shone  more  bright  unfashioned  in  the  breast ; 
The  sweet  mirage,  through  which  its  image  loomed, 
The  vague  desire,  whose  coloring  it  assumed, 
Seem  but  memorial  twilight  dimly  fair, 
Left  by  a  sunken  sun  to  haunt  the  air. 
Whate'er  we  do  is  less  than  what  we  are ; 
Where'er  we  move,  the  horizon  is  as  far ; 


20 

NATURE     AND     *RT. 

Thedis<»<  »  desire  is  alwaysbri 

r 


un  ^ 

'"Amrefleolionofafadedsky 

HI  d0     *  b-<™  onward  fe  a  'star 
*swherea,lthingsthatwe 

*»  »         the  Ideal  toplroue 

]es; 
after  ilsbright  P 


%  Love's  fine  instinct  Jike 


NATURE      AND     ART.  21 

O'er  life  she  sheds  a  coloring  intense, 

She  paints  with  radiant  hues  the  walls  of  sense,  — 

And  passing  through  Art's  roseate  atmosphere 

Into  the  regions  of  eternal  youth, 

The  form  of  Beauty  that  we  worshiped  here 

Drops  her  dim  veil,  and  welcomes  us  as  Truth. 

Thus  on  the  wings  of  Gladness  borne  along, 
Life  to  the  artist  is  a  festal  song ; 
And  living  with  such  forms  and  shapes  alway, 
And  feeding  on  such  fancies  day  by  day, 
What  wonder,  that  the  poet  should  become 
Prophetic,  hopeful,  in  life's  saddest  gloom  ? 
What  wonder  that  the  future  scene  should  ope 
An  infinite  distance  with  a  skyey  cope, 
Where  all  the  shadows  that  obscure  our  night 
Are  melted  in  the  fusion  of  its  light  ? 

Ye,  who  preside  as  priests  at  Beauty's  shrine ! 
Who  swing  your  censers  fed  with  light  divine  ! 
Whose  visions  on  Art's  painted  oriel  glow, 
And  over  life  a  pictured  radiance  throw ! 
Ye,  who  have  sung  the  high  and  perfect  strain, 
That  lifts  the  soul,  and  harmonizes  pain  ! 


22  NATURE     AND     ART. 

These  sensual  chains  ye  loosen  from  my  life, 
Dispel  its  misery,  and  dissolve  its  strife. 

Yes,  through  my  being  stirs  a  higher  sense, 
Quickened  by  thee  to  finest  influence  ; 
Walking  within  thy  light-enchanted  air, 
Thy  glory  imaged  round  my  brow  I  wear ; 
And  though  the  power,  that  made  thy  works  divine, 
To  humbler  hearts  hath  ever  been  denied, 
Thy  mortal  hands  have  shapen  thoughts,  that  shine 
Calm  as  the  stars,  to  comfort  and  abide  ; 
They  linger  here  to  lend  us  hope  and  trust, 
When  the  frail  lips  that  uttered  them  are  dust. 
The  dying  slave  in  them  hath  found  relief, 
They  have  assuaged  the  agony  of  grief, 
The  throned  tyrant  trembles  at  their  might, 
The  prisoner  in  his  dungeon  hails  their  light, 
The  scholar  on  their  pinions  soars  above, 
The  maiden  in  their  accents  breathes  her  love,  — 
And  calm,  august,  majestical  and  clear, 
They  shine  in  thought's  undying  atmosphere. 

Many  there  be,  whose  spirit  inly  stirred, 
Hath  pressed  their  life  into  a  cunning  word, 


NATURE      AND     ART.  23 

And  on  these  signs  hath  built  a  world  sublime, 
That  stands  unshaken  by  the  blasts  of  Time. 
There,  towering  mountains  on  their  summits  wear 
The  purple  haze  of  an  ideal  air  ; 
There,  Wisdom  breathes  amid  the  pensive  hours, 
And  sweet  success  rewards  aspiring  powers  ; 
There,  welling  forth  in  calm  and  lucid  streams, 
Glide  the  deep  currents  of  Ely  si  an  dreams  ; 
There,  shapes  majestic  of  heroic  mien, 
And  eyes  of  wisdom  breathe  the  air  serene ; 
There,  Rapture  soars  on  never-failing  wing ; 
There,  Fancy  blossoms  in  perennial  spring  ; 
There,  dwell  the  lofty  and  Utopian  scheme, 
The  earnest  thought,  the  fair  poetic  dream, 
The  visionary  hope  that  haunted  youth, 
The  still,  serene  and  quiet  face  of  Truth. 

And  they,  the  lofty  ones,  whose  hands  have  built 
The  skyey  world,  wherein  the  soul  harassed 
By  all  Life's  barking  cares,  the  spawn  of  Guilt, 
Refuge  may  find,  and  sweet  repose  at  last ; 
Their  names  are  battle-cries,  that  urge  us  on 
When  faith  declines,  as  with  a  trumpet  tone ; 
Their  voices  calling  clearly  for  the  right, 
Sound  through  the  noisy  tumult  of  the  fight  ; 


24  NATURE      AND     ART. 

Their  thoughts  are  noble  armories  of  words, 
Whose  edge  is  keener  than  Damascus  swords  ; 
Like  giant  spectres  clad  in  glittering  mail, 
Sword-proof,  fear-proof,  unknowing  how  to  fail, 
Invulnerable  phantom-bands  they  lead, 
Armed  for  the  Truth,  in  Freedom's  cause  to  bleed, 
And  through  the  air  their  burning  thoughts  they  sow 
Round  Falsehood,  like  the  Inferno's  fire  of  snow. 

Across  the  waste  of  time  their  tones  arise, 
Their  forms  unclouded  shine  before  my  eyes ;  — 
Now  like  the  sifting  wind  through  sighing  pines, 
The  spirit  moaneth  through  the  Psalmist's  lines ; 
There  Pindar  shoots  his  meteors  of  fire  ; 
There  blind  old  Homer  strikes  the  epic  lyre,  — 
While  sounds  the  rushing  din  of  war  along 
The  swelling  volume  of  his  sea-like  song  ; 
In  youth's  fresh  joyance  old  Anacreon  sings, 
And  Sappho's  hurrying  fingers  sweep  the  strings  ; 
There  jEschylus,  enlaureled,  wanders  by, 
Calm  and  severe  in  sculptural  majesty  ; 
There  Sophocles  appears  in  looser  ease, 
There  throbs  the  passion  of  Euripides. 
And  hark  !  again  from  the  Italian  strand 
I  catch  the  voice  of  Virgil,  sweet  and  bland ; 


NATURE     AND     ART.  25 

I  see  the  sparkling  ode  of  Horace  flash, 
I  hear  the  sounding  of  Lucretius'  lash  ; 
Still  nearer  ring,  in  terse  and  mystic  chime, 
The  nervous  chords  of  Dante's  triple  rhyme  ; 
While  Petrarch  plains  in  sweet  and  lovelorn  chaunt, 
And  Ariosto  trolls  his  gay  romaunt ;  — 
And  nearer  from  our  Father-land  I  hear 
Tones  more  familiar,  voices  far  more  dear, 
And  our  great  brothers  greet  my  seeking  eyes, 
Who  wove  our  household  words  to  melodies, 
Whose  blood  is  running  still  within  our  veins, 
Whose  spirit  warms  us  with  heroic  strains, 
And  gives  us  strength  to  strike  away  our  chains  ; 
He,  whose  sweet  voice  in  simple  cadence  flows, 
Like  some  clear  brook,  that  bubbling  purls  along, 
With  flowers  enameled,  singing  as  it  goes, 
Chaucer,  the  herald-star  of  English  song  ; 
Spenser,  whose  shafts  with  roses  are  entwined, 
Shaking  his  nine  sweet  bells  upon  the  wind  ; 
Milton,  whose  voice  like  some  deep  organ -tone 
In  diapason  notes  goes  swelling  on  ; 
And  mighty  Shakspeare,  nature's  darling  child, 
Whose  world-wide  mind  no  single  age  can  own, 
For  whom  the  Muses  served,  and  Wisdom  smiled, 
Who  sitteth  on  the  Olympian  peak  alone. 
4 


26  NATURE      AND      ART. 

And  yet  once  more  from  the  Teutonic  strand 
I  hear  the  voices  of  a  noble  band. 
Goethe,  in  whom  the  Present  imaged  lay, 
The  wise  clear  artist  working  in  the  Real  ; 
Schiller,  the  prophet  of  a  purer  day, 
The  true  and  earnest  priest  of  the  Ideal.  ( '  ) 

From  thee  I  turn,  for  to  my  listening  ear 
The  call  of  Music  soundeth  full  and  clear  ; 
Apollo's  lips  are  mute,  but  still  his  lyre 
Trembles  beneath  his  hand  in  notes  of  fire. 
Orpheus  before  me  moves,  and  from  his  strings 
Melodious  tones  upsoar  on  circling  rings  ;  — 
Child  of  Apollo  !  unto  whom  was  given 
The  finest  gift,  that  ever  came  from  heaven, 
I  see  thee  like  a  silvery  meteor  float 
Down  the  dark  shadow  of  the  Inferno's  throat, 
The  barking  hell-hound  droops  before  thy  spell 
As  thy  clear  notes  in  slumberous  murmurs  swell, 
And  Cerberus  sleeps  within  the  jaws  of  hell. 

Nor  thee  alone  I  see,  before  my  eyes 
Thy  younger  brothers  in  succession  rise  ; 
He,  who  with  earnest  will,  and  certain  gaze, 
Pursued  his  thought  along  the  fugue's  dark  maze, 


NATURE     AND     ART.  27 

Who  swung  the  sounding  gates  of  music  back 

On  their  harmonious  hinge  —  Sebastian  Bach  ; 

Handel,  majestic,  restful,  strong  and  clear, 

The  Alpine  peak  in  Music's  atmosphere  ; 

Haydn,  the  happy  bird  of  summer  bowers, 

That  sings  of  nature  in  her  sunniest  hours  ; 

Mozart,  from  out  whose  quick  capricious  heart, 

A  thousand  gushing  springs  of  passion  start, 

Gleams  of  sweet  Love  mid  hurrying  hopes  and  fears, 

And  sudden  smiles  obscured  by  sudden  tears  ; 

Bellini,  sighing  forth  his  lovelorn  lay ; 

Spohr,  climbing  on  through  Harmony's  dim  way  ; 

Rossini,  joyous  Ganymede  of  song  ; 

Weber,  who  leads  a  spirit-band  along,  — 

A  child  round  whom  the  fiends  and  fairies  throng ; 

Beethoven,  struggling  like  the  moaning  sea 

With  the  dim  longings  of  humanity, 

Wrestling  with  Fate  in  vast  Promethean  might, 

And  yearning  upward  for  the  Infinite. 

Spirit  divine !  though  heavenly  in  thy  birth, 
Thou  stoopest  to  the  humblest  child  of  earth. 
In  every  passion,  in  our  hope  and  fear, 
Thy  mild  angelic  voice  is  ever  near  ; 


28  NATURE    AND    ART. 

Thou  weavest  round  the  heart  thy  subtle  snare, 
And  tak'st  the  spirit  in  a  net  of  air  ; 
Thy  voice  can  lull  life's  sullen  cares  to  sleep, 
And  sorrow  in  thy  smile  forgets  to  weep  ; 
Beside  the  loneliest  one  thou  hast  a  place, 
The  happiest  one  is  happier  for  thy  grace, 
And  Love  smiles  sweetest  in  thy  kind  embrace. 

Prophetic  spirit !  in  thy  tones  sublime, 
I  hear  the  promise  of  a  purer  time,  — 
Where  round  the  soul,  unfettered  by  the  sense, 
Streams  the  glad  morning  of  Love's  effluence  ; 
Where  Hope  no  longer  wears  the  face  of  Pain, 
And  Truth's  clear  strength  can  make  us  Gods  again ; 
Where  from  the  certain  bounds  of  life  set  free 
The  Ideal  dwells  in  pure  serenity. 
There  swells  the  silent  Faith,  that  never  dies, 
On  the  deep  chords  of  massive  harmonies ; 
There  Aspiration  on  melodious  wings 
Soars  to  the  gates  of  heaven,  and  soaring  sings ; 
There  all  the  scattered  longings  of  the  soul 
Gathering  in  waves  of  music  onward  roll 
To  merge  at  last  in  one  harmonious  Whole. 


NATURE    AND    ART.  29 

Nor  in  the  sphere  of  words  and  sounds  alone 
Hath  Art  its  wondrous  deeds  of  beauty  sown  ; 
Its  robe  of  color  round  itself  it  wreathes, 
And  on  the  silent  canvass  speaks  and  breathes. 
The  fleeting  smile,  the  evanescent  grace, 
That  dawned  a  moment  on  the  human  face, 
The  sunny  gleam  of  love,  that  o'er  it  passed, 
As  if  the  soul  a  passing  angel  glassed,  — 
And  all  the  instant's  spiritual  birth 
Within  its  magic  glass  are  mirrored  forth  ; 
The  actual  passes  like  a  shadow  by, 
The  shadow  stays,  a  calm  reality. 

There,  in  sweet  grace  and  pensive  beauty,  dwell 
The  angelic  forms,  that  smiled  on  RafTaelle  ; 
There,  in  prophetic  power  and  sombre  thought, 
Stand  the  great  shapes  that  Angelo  hath  wrought ; 
There,  unto  peace  subdued,  with  smile  serene, 
Are  the  calm  figures  of  Da  Vinci  seen ; 
There,  in  harmonious  coloring  brownly  clear, 
Correggio's  shadowy  dreams  of  Love  appear ; 
There,  in  voluptuous  glow  and  roseate  hue, 
Breathes  the  warm  Life,  that  Titian's  pencil  drew  ; 


30  NATURE    AND    ART. 

There,  wild  with  joy,  in  health's  exuberant  flush, 
The  allegoric  groups  of  Rubens  rush  ; 
There,  bathed  in  sunset,  or  the  hues  of  dawn, 
The  dewy  landscapes  sleep,  that  Claude  hath  drawn  ; 
There,  blazing  whitely  through  a  thickening  gloom, 
With  mystery  touched,  the  shapes  of  Rembrandt  roam  ; 
There,  myriad  figures  move,  the  spirit  birth 
Of  hearts,  that  labored  on  our  common  earth. 

Alas  !  as  I  their  sounding  names  rehearse, 
Thy  memory,  Allston,  claims  my  passing  verse  ; 
For  Death  hath  taken  with  remorseless  hand 
A  dearer  friend,  to  swell  that  glorious  band. 
Cold  is  the  heart,  that  once  with  love  was  warm  ! 
Hushed  is  the  voice,  that  once  the  air  could  charm  ! 
Powerless  the  hand,  that  on  the  canvass  wrought 
The  hue  of  feeling,  and  the  depth  of  thought ! 
Ours  is  the  grief,  that  mourns  above  the  bier, 
The  useless  praise,  the  unavailing  tear  ; 
But  thou  the  goal  of  all  thy  hopes  hast  won, 
And  standest  like  thine  Uriel  —  in  the  sun  ! 

Still  as  I  breathe  thy  name,  I  seem  to  see 
The  pensive  grace  of  listening  Rosalie, 


NATURE    AND    ART.  31 

The  elastic  dance  of  Miriam  on  the  sand, 
The  fearful  vision  of  The  Bloody  Hand, 
The  inspiration  of  the  Prophet's  eye, 
The  dreamer's  golden  ladder  to  the  sky. 

Within  yon  narrow  tomb  thou  sleepest  safe  ! 
The  world's  neglect  thy  spirit  cannot  chafe,  — 
To  thee  'tis  nothing,  in  thy  moveless  rest, 
That  no  white  pillar  gleams  above  thy  breast ;  — 
Thou  carest  not ;  for  what  is  earthly  fame 
To  him  whose  soul  hath  crost  Death's  dreary  wave  ? 
But  let  it  not  be  spoken  to  our  shame, 
That  Genius  sleeps  unhonored  in  the  grave.  ( * ) 
Not  so  did  Denmark  o'er  her  son  lament, 
For  him  shall  rise  a  costly  monument  — 
Sounded  the  solemn  dirge,  the  requiem's  swell, 
The  shrouded  city  wore  a  face  of  gloom, 
And  while  the  day  wailed  with  funereal  knell, 
A  mourning  nation  bore  him  to  the  tomb. 

Nor  less  I  see  the  mute  insensate  stone 
The  silent  conquest  of  the  idea  own, 
Forth  from  the  dark  and  shapeless  quarry  start, 
And  breathe  with  passion  at  the  call  of  Art. 


32  NATURE    AND    ART. 

Far  in  the  east,  half  buried  in  the  sand, 
The  Giant  Memnons  in  the  desert  stand  ; 
There  crouching  low  the  stone-eyed  sphinxes  lie, 
There  tower  the  spiring  pyramids  on  high ; 
There  in  their  stony  chairs,  half  man,  half  beast, 
In  hideous  masks,  gigantic  figures  rest ; 
And  groping  Art  is  fettered  to  a  law, 
Whose  loftiest  hope  is  overbowed  with  awe. 

But  nearer  through  the  mists  of  time,  I  see 
The  sensuous  shapes  of  Greek  serenity  ;  — 
The  lofty  wisdom  of  the  Phidian  Jove, 
The  Venus,  breathing  melody  and  love, 
The  God  of  light,  with  triumph  in  his  face, 
The  chaste  Diana,  girdled  for  the  chase, 
The  dancing  Faun,  the  cloven-footed  Pan, 
The  cymbal-beating  Bacchus  and  his  clan, 
Laocoon,  writhing  in  his  serpent  coil, 
Ponderous  Alcides,  resting  from  his  toil, 
The  Gladiator,  straining  at  his  blow, 
Or  in  the  agony  of  death  laid  low  ; 
And  all  that  marble  world,  that  cannot  feel 
The  chains  in  which  their  living  brothers  kneel. 


NATURE    AND    ART.  33 

Again  I  see  within  Art's  magic  glass 
Its  architectural  shapes  before  me  pass  ; 
The  Arabian  tent,  the  glittering  Kiosk, 
The  spiring  minaret,  the  Turkish  mosque, 
The  rounded  dome,  that  in  the  sunshine  swells, 
The  light  pagoda  with  its  tinkling  bells, 
The  ^Egyptian  hieroglyph  and  sloping  wall, 
The  Greek's  light  shaft  and  leafy  capital, 
The  carved  cathedral  with  its  massive  towers, 
Its  oriel  windows,  and  its  stony  flowers, 
The  dream  of  Art  in  medieval  hours. 

Yes  !   every  age  in  Art  its  Faith  hath  wrought, 
The  Grecian  chisel  carved  the  Grecian  thought ; 
But  what  brave  hand  hath  shapen  forth  in  stone 
The  Christian's  faith,  since  Angelo  hath  gone  ? 
Where  are  the  forms,  that  kindred  dare  assume 
With  the  great  shapes  that  watch  on  Julian's  tomb  ?  (3) 
Where  is  the  voice,  that  in  the  stone  can  speak 
In  any  other  language  than  the  Greek  ? 

Was  it  for  this,  O  hearts  of  Faith  sublime  ! 
Ye  shaped  those  works  that  seem  to  threaten  Time  ? 


34  NATURE    AND    ART. 

Was  it  for  this  ye  wrought  in  patient  power 

To  rear  on  Nature's  soil  the  Ideal  flower  ? 

No  !  from  your  graves  in  accents  low  and  clear, 

Across  a  century's  waste  your  tones  I  hear ; 

In  mild  rebuke,  in  lofty  scorn  ye  call, 

"  The  soul  that  weakly  leans  shall  surely  fall ; 

All  that  we  ever  did  were  but  as  dust, 

Without  these  simple  words  —  Hope,  Love  and  Trust. 

No  former  age  for  greatness  shapes  a  school, 

Truth  is  its  watch-word  —  Beauty  is  its  rule  ; 

The  seed  of  Feeling  scattered  from  the  heart, 

In  Nature  rooted,  blossometh  in  Art. 

The  False  shall  perish,  though  the  age  may  raise 

The  specious  flattery  of  its  foolish  praise  ; 

Yet  do  not  waver,  dare  to  trust  to  Truth, 

Cling  fast  to  the  prophetic  hope  of  Youth ! 

Scorn  the  base  creed,  that  in  despair  would  cast 

Thy  spirit  at  the  footstool  of  the  Past ! 

Press  to  thy  heart  all  nature  for  thine  own, 

And  live  in  Freedom  —  strong  because  alone." 

Is  then  the  soil  exhausted  utterly  ? 
Are  all  Art's  well-springs  vanished  or  run  dry? 
Hath  Nature  shut  forever  from  our  view 
Her  myriad  forms  —  her  ever-changing  hue  ? 


NATURE     AND    ART.  35 

No  !  all  those  magic  tones  lie  scattered  here, 
From  which  the  Past  hath  struck  a  chord  so  clear ; 
Soon  as  a  dauntless  hand  shall  touch  the  keys, 
Again  shall  sound  their  wondrous  harmonies. 

In  foreign  soil  that  seed  was  never  sown, 
Which  when  transplanted  can  adorn  our  own  ; 
Not  in  Italian  moulds  of  ages  past 
Shall  the  free  spirit  of  our  age  be  cast ; 
Fair  as  they  are,  we  may  not  hope  to  win 
From  them  the  Life  whose  fountains  are  within. 


Oh  rather  perish  all  those  works,  that  shine 
Round  Freedom's  grave,  to  make  that  grave  divine,  — 
Perish  that  fair  unchanging  brood  of  thought 
Heroic  minds  in  stone  and  color  wrought ; 
And  let  their  lives  alone  remain  sublime 
Like  morning  paintings  on  the  air  of  time  — 
Yes,  perish  !  rather  than  benumb  the  powers, 
And  quell  the  courage  of  succeeding  hours, 
Rather  than  darken  Art  in  dread  eclipse, 
And  dash  Hope's  wine-cup  from  its  thirsting  lips, 
Rather  than  crush  that  Faith  which  can  anneal, 
And  lead  us  captive  at  their  chariot  wheel. 


36  NATURE    AND    ART. 

Oh  thou !  who  passest,  with  enraptured  eyes, 
Through  the  long  aisles  of  Roman  Galleries ! 
Who  seest  those  pictured  thoughts  still  fresh  and  fair, 
Live  on  their  wall,  and  consecrate  the  air,  — 
Remember  thou  the  cunning  hand  of  man 
For  ages  wrought  to  fill  one  Vatican  ! 
That  on  its  walls  are  hung  a  century's  spoil, 
From  darkness  saved  by  many  an  hour  of  toil ! 
That  they  are  all  but  single  works,  that  grew 
Each  from  a  single  hand,  that  dared  be  true  ; 
That  unbefriended  each  performed  his  part, 
More  isolated  even  than  thou  art ; 
That  all  these  mighty  works  are  sketches  rude, 
Hints  saved  from  Nature's  boundless  amplitude, 
One  moment's  glance,  one  faint  and  wandering  ray 
Caught  from  the  beauty  of  eternal  day. 
Then  turn  from  these  to  pictures  far  more  fair, 
Forever  painted  on  Life's  common  air. 

Fool  !  thou  may'st  wander  'neath  Italian  skies, 
And  seek  for  beauty  with  thy  wondering  eyes, 
But  till  thy  being  from  itself  shall  shed 
The  Light  of  Life,  all  Nature  shall  be  dead. 
Unto  the  mean  soul  all  the  world  is  mean, 
For  him  no  glory  wreathes  the  fairest  scene  ; 


NATURE    AND    ART.  37 

But  Genius  makes  the  lowliest  station  great, 
Scatters  its  fragrance  in  the  path  of  Fate, 
And  in  its  dungeon  sits  in  regal  state. 
It  asks  no  vague  and  visionary  time, 
No  stale  convention,  no  ideal  clime, 
But  in  the  every-day  of  Life  can  see 
The  unblurred  foot-prints  of  Divinity. 
High  though  it  be,  of  a  celestial  birth, 
Its  feet  are  not  too  tender  for  our  earth  ; 
Here  in  the  Present  it  can  live  and  act, 
Lend  its  warm  life  to  every  common  fact, 
And  fighting  undismayed  in  Freedom's  van, 
Lead  on  the  noble  brotherhood  of  man. 

Yes,  nothing  is  so  low,  as  not  to  be 
Made  glorious  by  a  brave  sincerity  ; 
No  time  can  ever  be  too  late  for  him, 
Whose  will  is  firm,  whose  trust  is  never  dim  ; 
The  palm  and  laurel  bloom  but  for  the  brave, 
But  fear  pronounces  doom,  and  chains  the  slave ; 
We  in  our  secret  bosom  carry  fate, 
And  they  command  it,  who  are  truly  great. 

To-day  is  new,  its  tale  was  never  told, 
Still  in  its  breast  some  secret  doth  it  hold ; 


38  NATURE    AND    ART. 

I  hear  it  in  the  clattering  mill-wheel  stir? 
In  the  swift  loom,  the  dizzy  spindles'  whir, 
In  the  red  flames,  that  choke  the  furnace  gorge, 
In  the  loud  hammers  clanging  at  the  forge, 
In  the  great  ships,  that  with  the  tempest  sport, 
And  fly  like  shuttles  thrown  from  port  to  port. 

All  noble  character  is  but  the  wraith 
Of  an  inflexible  abiding  faith  ; 
How  may  the  mind  in  which  great  visions  be, 
Dispute  the  splendor  of  their  majesty  ? 
How  shall  he  blench  before  a  craven  fear 
Who  lists  their  voices  awful  and  austere  ? 
The  mean  and  weak  may  crouch  to  empty  rules, 
Forgetting  man  while  worshiping  his  tools  ; 
Let  them  upon  the  skirts  of  genius  cling, 
And  ape  its  step,  and  drivel  as  they  sing. 
But  he,  to  whom  the  august  truth  shall  come, 
Must  plead  its  cause,  despite  of  martyrdom  ; 
This  from  the  fagot's  flame  the  heat  can  steal, 
This  dulls  the  axe,  and  stays  the  torturing  wheel, 
This  feeds  the  soul  with  consecrated  bread, 
This  makes  the  dungeon-floor  a  downy  bed  ; 


NATURE    AND    ART.  39 

And  though  the  whole  world  threatening  should  rise, 
And  shake  aloft  its  bloody  scourge  and  chains, 
Who  has  God's  message  will  its  threats  despise, 
And  walk  triumphant  through  its  sternest  pains. 

So  long  as  Art  shall  tamely  creep  and  crouch, 
Slave  of  another's  power,  another's  touch, 
Plunderer  of  wealth  a  previous  age  amassed, 
Copyist  and  follower,  thieving  from  the  Past, 
So  long  with  draggled  flight  it  can  but  creep, 
Where  once  its  wing  against  the  sky  could  sweep. 

But  no  !  this  shall  not  be  !  Art  shall  arise 
Hopeful  and  faithful  to  its  destinies. 
Do  thou,  my  country,  from  its  sleeping  trance 
Call  back  the  life  to  glad  its  countenance  ; 
The  shackles  of  a  slavish  custom  break, 
Teach  it  in  Freedom's  well  its  thirst  to  slake, 
In  its  own  life  and  thought  its  glory  seek, 
Not  from  the  Italian  borrowed,  nor  the  Greek. 

Oh  !  sleep  no  more  o'ershadowed  by  the  Past ! 
From  thy  cramped  limbs  the  broken  fetters  cast ! 
Rouse  from  thy  lethargy,  with  filmless  eyes 
Behold  the  pageant,  that  around  thee  lies  ! 


40  NATURE      AND      ART. 

It  was  no  fairer  age,  no  sunnier  clime, 

From  which  the  Italian  drew  a  life  sublime. 

Gleams  not  the  burning  morning  here  as  there  ? 

Sleeps  not  the  thickening  evening  in  our  air  ? 

Lies  not  the  deep  blue  distance  of  the  night 

Above  us,  dusted  with  its  starry  light  ? 

Stir  not  the  whispering  pines  in  every  breeze  ? 

Beat  not  the  pulses  of  the  surging  seas  ? 

Rise  not  the  mountain-tops  the  sky  to  greet  ? 

Bloom  not  the  wild-flowers  all  around  our  feet  ? 

Flash  not  the  lightnings  at  the  thunder's  call, 

Rend  the  huge  rock,  and  crack  the  sky's  black  wall  ? 

Doth  not  all  nature,  terrible  or  mild, 

Compass  around  the  frailest  earthly  child  ? 

Nor  this  alone,  the  agony  of  pain, 

The  bliss  of  love,  that  moulds  the  world  again  ; 

Revenge  and  hate  and  jealousy  and  scorn, 

Are  not  these  passions  in  our  bosoms  born  ? 

Do  we  not  mourn  above  the  dying  bed  ? 

Fall  not  grief's  bitter  tears  upon  our  bread  ? 

Are  there  not  life  and  death  and  hope  and  joy  ? 

The  gray-haired  father,  and  the  full-cheeked  boy  ? 

Doth  not  the  striving  heart  in  passion  burn  ? 

Doth  not  the  soul  in  heavenward  longings  yearn  ? 


NATURE     AND     ART.  41 

Are  there  not  thousand  hearts,  the  sport  of  chance, 
Strangled  within  the  coil  of  circumstance  ? 

Alas  !  my  country,  while  tumultuous  brawls 
And  noisy  factions  shake  thy  council  halls ; 
While  Truth  and  Honor,  stricken  in  the  strife, 
Fall  'neath  the  bullet  and  the  bowie-knife  ; 
While  at  thy  seats  of  Justice  murder  shrieks, 
And  red  with  blood  the  assassin's  dagger  reeks  ; 
While  power  by  office  buys  its  venal  tribes, 
And  soils  the  Nation's  honor  with  its  bribes  ; 
While  faithful  Virtue,  that  abjures  a  price, 
Is  trampled  down  beneath  the  feet  of  Vice  ; 
While  over  Freedom's  soil,  uplifted,  waves 
The  keen  lash  clotted  with  the  blood  of  slaves, 
And  their  long  shriek,  and  agonizing  cry 
Chime  with  their  masters'  cheers  for  Liberty  ; 
While  vice  and  crime  corrupt  the  Nation's  heart, 
Oh  !  where  shall  Truth  find  refuge  but  in  Art  ? 
There  let  her  flee  ;  thence  from  her  lofty  shrine 
Uplift  her  voice  to  chasten  and  refine  ; 
True  to  her  duty,  from  the  realms  of  Song 
Sting  with  her  darts  the  festering  heart  of  wrong  ; 
6 
-' 


42  NATURE      AND     ART. 

Where'er  Oppression  with  its  iron  heel 
Tramples  the  rights  of  Freedom  in  the  dust, 
Let  her  unsheathe  her  sharp  avenging  steel, 
And  wield  her  lightnings  for  the  true  and  just ; 
Where'er  Religion  languishing  may  bleed 
Imprisoned  in  the  selfish  Bigot's  creed  ; 
Where'er  the  clanging  chain  of  slavery  rings, 
Where'er  the  foul  and  barbarous  gibbet  swings, 
Let  her  the  austere  song  of  Justice  chaunt, 
And  Falsehood  like  a  threatening  fury  haunt. 

Oh  not  alone  the  task  of  Art  to  please ; 
Loftier  and  nobler  are  its  destinies  ; 
Hers  is  the  task  to  teach  the  soul  to  climb 
Out  of  the  noisome  atmosphere  of  crime  ; 
To  warm  the  heart  as  by  a  summer's  breath, 
And  wreath  with  flowers  the  bitter  sting  of  Death  ; 
To  wake  the  sleeping  powers  from  out  their  lair, 
And  with  its  lightning  purge  the  infected  air  ; 
Unsoiled  by  Fear,  by  Custom  unbetrayed, 
By  Love  uplifted  and  in  Truth  arrayed, 
Words  firm  as  Faith  to  whisper  to  the  weak, 
Hopes  high  as  Heaven  unto  the  low  to  speak, 


NATURE      AND      ART.  43 

The  doubting  heart  with  earnest  words  to  win, 
Pluck  from  the  breast  the  poisonous  sting  of  sin, 
And  thoughts,  by  deep  emotion  made  sublime, 
To  scatter  broadcast  o'er  the  fields  of  time. 

E'en  as  I  listen  down  Time's  narrowing  cone, 
The  voices  cheer  me  that  from  earth  have  gone. 
From  the  far  east^w:  earliest  voice  I  hear, 
Vague,  faint,  and  distant,  muttering  to  my  ear ;  — 
Still  to  the  west  they  call,  and  evermore 
Their  tone  comes  purer,  clearer  than  before. 
From  Egypt  unto  Greece  I  hear  them  cry, 
From  Greece  to  Rome,  from  Rome  to  Germany, 
Then  England  calls,  and  onward  to  the  west 
The  voice  comes  pealing  o'er  the  Atlantic's  breast ; 
To  us  it  calls,  to  us,  and  yet  again 
Our  answering  call  shall  echo  o'er  the  main  ; 
And  Art  renewing  on  our  native  shore 
Shall  like  a  Phoenix  from  its  ashes  soar. 

From  those,  who  by  a  craven  fear  are  bound 
In  one  dull  ring  to  circle  ever  round  ; 
Whose  hope  is  dimmed,  to  whom  the  Future  lends 
No  cheering  voice,  no  helping  hand  extends  ; 


44  NATURE     AND      ART. 

Whose  eyes  look  backward  to  a  vanished  age, 

Whose  heart  is  prisoned  in  a  gilded  cage, 

Turn  we  in  scorn,  to  seek  for  him  whose  heart 

Was  never  harnessed  to  a  faded  art ; 

Whose  soul  from  Nature's  breast  its  vigor  drains, 

Whose  open  eye  into  the  Future  strains ; 

In  whom  an  upward  hope,  a  faith  sublime 

Are  wings  to  lift  him  far  above  his  time  ; 

Who  stands  upright,  with  firm  unwavering  will, 

And  bravely  dares  his  mission  to  fulfil ; 

Whose  thought  disdains  the  slavery  of  rules, 

To  whom  the  soul  is  better  than  its  tools  ; 

Who  crouches  down  before  no  empty  name 

Emblazoned  on  the  glittering  rolls  of  Fame  ; 

To  whom  all  mighty  voices  seem  to  call, 

Who  speaks  his  own  truth,  speaks  the  truth  of  all ; 

To  him  again,  in  strength  renewed,  shall  start 

The  new-born  giant  of  reviving  Art. 

He  shall  create  a  new  and  golden  age, 

From  Custom's  grasp  its  spirit  disengage, 

No  more  a  mourner  o'er  Art's  corse  shall  weep, 

But  breaking  with  a  touch  its  spell-bound  sleep, 

Shall  blast  the  death-like  torpor  from  its  eyes, 

And  bid  it  in  its  living  might  arise. 

AUGUST  28,  1844. 


NOTES. 


(  1 )  In  the  poem  as  it  was  originally  written,  the  allusion  to 
Goethe  and  Schiller  was  comprised  in  the  following  couplet : 

Goethe,  in  whom  the  present  imaged  lay, 
Schiller,  the  prophet  of  a  purer  day. 

These  lines  were  spoken  precisely  as  they  were  written,  and 
they  were  written  in  entire  ignorance  of  the  nature  or  subject  of 
Mr.  Putnam's  oration.  In  consequence  of  some  misapprehension 
on  the  part  of  the  audience  as  to  the  meaning,  which  I  intended 
to  convey,  I  have,  since  the  delivery  of  the  poem,  thought  it  best 
to  add  the  two  lines  now  inserted  in  the  text.  I  hy  no  means  in- 
tended to  depreciate  either  poet  in  favor  of  the  other,  any  more 
than  I  should  in  the  case  of  Shakspeare  and  Wordsworth,  but 
merely  to  hint  at  a  characteristic  peculiarity  of  each.  Much  as  I 
admired  the  very  eloquent  oration  by  Mr.  Putnam,  I  nevertheless 
differ  from  him  in  his  estimate  of  Goethe,  and  doubt  the  truth  of 
his  prophecy.  I  hope  I  may  be  pardoned  if  I  linger  a  moment  to 
express  a  little  more  fully  my  views  as  to  these  poets  —  though  I 
can  here  but  hint  at  them. 

Goethe  was  eminently  an  artist, —  whose  creed  was  contained  in 
his  own  words  :  "  It  is  not  the  knowledge  of  what  might  be,  but 
of  what  is  that  forms  us."  His  chief  aim  was  to  reproduce  and 
interpret  the  actual,  and  to  reflect  the  passions  and  character  of 
man.  For  this  end,  he  labored  for  more  than  sixty  years  with  an 
untiring  perseverance,  and  an  irrepressible  energy.  To  his  work 
he  brought  the  most  comprehensive  intellect,  the  clearest  insight, 
the  best  trained  senses  of  any  man  of  his  age,  and  wherever  his 


46 


searching  eyes  were  fixed,  their  vision  was  exhausting.  He  suf- 
fered nothing  to  pass  him  by  without  solving  its  secret.  He  ran- 
sacked nature,  and  dissected  passion.  He  was  indifferent, 
unsympathizing,  egotistical.  He  was  a  looker  on,  beholding 
calmly  from  his  high  tower  the  battle  of  Life  below,  without  ever 
mingling  with  it;  and  his  reports  of  it  are  blinded  by  no  cant,  and 
colored  by  no  prejudice.  The  gospel  which  he  preached  in  all 
his  life  was  Work.  He  never  asked  whether  anything  was  good 
or  bad,  but  only  whether  it  existed.  Whatever  actually  existed  in 
life,  he  considered  to  be  a  fair  subject  for  art.  So  did  Shakspeare. 
Such  is  he  in  his  writings.  His  life  and  character  as  a  private  man, 
is  foreign  to  my  purpose  to  discuss.  But  whatever  it  was,  the 
broadest  truths,  the  most  experienced  counsel,  the  most  acute  philo- 
sophy, and  the  most  lucid  thoughts  fell  from  his  lips,  and  these  the 
world  will  not  easily  let  die.  In  every  department  it  may  be  really 
said  of  him,  "  nihilteti  git  quod  non  ornavit."  His  prose  is  trans- 
parent, idiomatic,  and  full  of  magical  light  and  shadow.  His  poetry 
corresponds  to  Milton's  parenthetical  definition  ;  it  is  simple,  sensu- 
ous, passionate.  Nor  is  his  faculty  single  or  limited.  We  find 
him,  at  different  times,  the  scientific  inquirer,  the  naturalist,  the 
philosopher,  the  historian,  the  novelist,  the  critic,  or  all  of  these 
at  once,  the  poet.  More  than  anything,  he  seems  to  me  like  an 
iceberg,  cold,  transparent,  gigantic,  but  serene,  and  glittering 
with  the  prismatic  hues  of  poetry. 

Schiller,  on  the  other  hand,  is  the  Priest  of  the  Ideal  ;  who 
chaunts  the  high  song  of  Freedom  and  Perfectability.  He  is  es- 
sentially a  transcendentalist,  who  finds  his  inspiration  in  Philoso- 
phy rather  than  in  Life.  His  writings  are  full  of  lofty  aspiration 
and  noble  sentiment  ;  but  he  is  rather  an  eloquent  rhetorician, 
and  a  poetical  philosopher,  than  a  poet.  His  best  poem,  was  his 
Life  ;  which,  though  it  was  not  stainless,  was  mostly  noble.  In 
History  and  ^Esthetics,  he  expressed  his  highest  power.  His 
Drama  contains  passionate  declamation,  and  fine  sentiment,  but  lit- 
tle truth  to  Life.  His  aim,  continually,  was  to  attain  the  indifferent 
and  objective  position  of  Goethe  ;  but  his  nature  opposed  him. 
Still,  one  easily  sees  the  influence  of  Goethe,  in  comparing  The 
Robbers  with  Wilhelm  Tell. 

Schiller,  as  an  artist,  is  not  equal  to  Goethe  ;  as  a  man,  he  was 
nobler.  He  is  more  enthusiastic,  and  more  sympathetic,  but  less 


47 


serene,  and  less  wise  than  Goethe.  There  is  in  a  great  measure, 
the  same  species  of  difference  between  Goethe  and  Schiller,  as 
between  Milton  and  Shakspeare.  But  Schiller  was  not  Miltonian, 
nor  was  Goethe  Shaksperian.  Schiller  is  rather  of  all  our  dra- 
matists, like  George  Chapman,  that  old  heroic  spirit  of  Elizabeth's 
time.  Schiller  strove  to  realize  the  divine  ;  Goethe  strove  to 
poetize  the  common.  Schiller's  endeavor  was  to  evolve  the  par- 
ticular from  the  universal  ;  Goethe's  to  involve  the  universal  in 
the  particular  ;  and,  therefore,  the  former  is  allegoric  and  meta- 
physic,  while  the  latter  is  definite  and  individual.  Schiller  is 
always  drawing  down  the  sky  ;  Goethe  is  always  sustaining  the 
earth.  Goethe  sings  of  Life  ;  Schiller  of  Truth.  Goethe  strove 
to  explain  and  embody  what  he  had  and  saw ;  Schiller  to 
reach  and  express  what  he  neither  had  nor  saw,  but  only  longed 
for.  Goethe  is  an  artist  looking  round  ;  Schiller  is  a  mystic  look- 
ing up.  The  singleness  of  Schiller  is  more  easily  comprehended 
than  the  variety  and  complication  of  Goethe;  he  is  higher,  but  not 
so  broad  and  clear.  Finally,  Schiller  sang  of  moral  and  philo- 
sophic Truth,  and  Goethe  of  Truth,  as  it  was  colored  in  the  Prism 
of  Common  Life. 

(  2  )  Washington  Allston  is  buried  in  the  church-yard,  contigu- 
ous to  the  Episcopal  Church,  in  Cambridge.  No  monument  has 
yet  been  erected  to  his  memory  ;  and  the  final  resting-place  of 
the  painter  and  poet,  who  adorned  American  art,  and  enriched  its 
literature,  whose  fame  is  a  public  property,  and  a  national  glory, 
is  not  even  designated  by  a  stone.  It  is  to  be  hoped,  that  this 
will  not  long  remain  so.  Let  us  not  forget  that  some  things 
are  better  than  money  and  barter.  Let  us  do  honor  to  him 
who  so  truly  hath  done  honor  to  us.  Let  us  remember,  that  one 
of  the  highest  safeguards  of  morality,  and  one  of  the  surest  in- 
centives to  action,  is  the  memory  of  pure  and  elevated  genius. 

(  3  )  Upon  the  tomb  of  Giuliano  de  Medici,  at  Florence,  are  the 
gigantic  statues  of  Day  and  Night,  by  Michel  Angelo,  casts  from 
which  are  in  the  Boston  Athenaeum  ;  and  concerning  which  last 
we  would  echo  Vasari's  remark,  "  Statua  non  rara  ma  unica." 
Michel  Angelo  is  the  great  Christian  sculptor,  and  the  only  great 
mind,  which,  since  the  palmy  days  of  the  Greeks  has  em- 


48 


bodied  the  spiritual  idea  of  his  age  in  stone.  John  of  Bologna, 
Canova,  Flaxman,  Thorwaldsen,  the  greatest  names  in  modern 
sculpture,  are  merely  modern  Greeks.  Their  aim  is  Grecian  ; 
their  execution  is  Grecian  ;  their  subjects  are  Grecian ;  their 
thought  is  Grecian  ;  and  they  are  to  be  judged  by  Grecian  stand- 
ards. Sculpture  is  just  the  same  in  kind  as  it  was  in  the  time  of 
Pericles  ;  but  far  inferior  in  quality. 

In  painting,  have  been  embodied  the  different  spiritual  phases  of 
different  ages.  Not  only  is  the  grand  idea  of  Christianity  ex- 
pressed therein,  but  even  its  different  modes  of  Catholicism  and 
Protestanism.  There  is  this  gieat  difference  between  Grecian 
and  Italian  painting  ;  that  the  Greeks  expressed  outward  life  ;  and 
that  the  Italian  masters  expressed  the  soul.  One  was  the  result 
of  observation ;  the  other  of  feeling. 

While  painting  has  thus  advanced,  sculpture  has  stood  still. 
No  attempt  has  been  made  to  embody  the  spiritual  idea  of  our  age, 
except  in  some  few  instances  ;  the  style  of  which  is  imbued  with 
Grecianism.  Modern  sculpture  is  so  subservient  to  Grecian,  that 
the  human  face  is  generally  Heated  as  if  it  were  of  no  moment  in 
the  expression  of  passion  and  character  :  because  the  Grecians  so 
treated  it.  We  have  thousands  of  Venuses,  but  no  women. 
Until  the  subjects  of  sculpture  issue  from  the  heart  of  the  age,  and 
their  treatment  is  imbued  with  the  feeling  of  the  time,  sculpture 
will  never  be  the  great  art  that  it  once  was.  It  is  time  that  our 
artists  abandoned  the  exoteric  style  of  the  Greeks,  and  strove  to 
give  their  works  the  esoteric  significance,  which  our  age  demands. 
Sculpture  is  now  almost  nothing  but  imitation.  There  are,  how- 
ever, some  exceptions.  One  man  there  is  to  which  I  look  forward 
with  a  large  hope  ;  as  the  creator  of  a  new  and  original  style, 
which  has  Nature  for  its  basis,  and  which  embodies  the  life  and 
thought  of  the  age.  That  man  is  Hiram  Powers  ;  who,  in  my 
humble  estimation,  has  shown  a  better  and  finer  genius  for  sculp- 
ture, than  any  man  since  Michel  Angelo. 


LIBRARY 

'  IFORNLU 
T.OS  ANGELES 


Story  - 


29 hi  Nature  and  art 
N21 


PS 

29U7 

N21 


Urwers-tyofCaWo™,, 


-  005  242  452  0 

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